Tag Archives: surrender

Now that she’s arrived, was there anything else to it? A life summoned itself and paused for a while. Yes, there was always a pause, Larisa noticed; a breather in between the chapters.

She never imagined her death, never was the type to bear the hubris of planning her own funeral. Like weddings, death demanded metaphors. To capture oneself, to be summarized, direly: But how can one not be so many things at once? Besides, the way she felt, ceremonies strived for a shared experience; not a centralized meditation that treated the self as the object of all other events; that separated and sought how different one was from the rest, taking for granted the universality of it all. She didn’t have the ego for it.

Larisa had been living for others, certainly: a symptom assigned mostly to her gender. In her family, she had witnessed the earlier generations of women lose themselves in sacrificial love. For the sake of their children, their husbands, their aging parents, they carried on serving; until they found themselves having a hard time remembering what they themselves had wanted, originally, all along. Remember those days? How many times she’d heard the mournful reminiscence in a woman’s voice: Those days! What happened since then, Larisa wondered, herself still a young girl; what force of obscurity slithered itself in between and demanded for a retraction, or a delay at least.

Definitely, she wouldn’t lose the sight of her own purpose, she thought! Yet, the loneliness came scratching at the backdoor, becoming louder as she compared the things other women claimed as accomplishments: dramatic courtships, the victory in which meant expensive weddings and doting husbands, as one could only hope; then, the automatic events of pregnancy and nest acquiring (building, building, gaining weightiness); the demands of a chosen lifestyle, or in the cases of the less fortunate — merely survivals. Every woman she knew had leapt into all of it without ever questioning the reality of her expectations. How could their husbands — the equally unknowing human beings with a whole other set of expectations imposed onto them — keep up? They too, when young, once dreamt of following the call of the world’s magnificence. But lives demanded to be defined by success; and what others made of success — was not at all what she’d imagined.

There was love, of course. There would always be love. Beyond her own anxiety and self-judgement, she could see that a life was only as successful as the love one projected. Still, in the beginning, it was loneliness that determined the pursuit of it; and loneliness made things more urgent, non-negotiable and somehow crucial. It conformed the shape of love, so it could fit into the missing parts; make-up for the previous mistakes of others; fix, mold, make it better. Because in a person, there were always parts missing: from too much love, or not enough of it, from the prototypes of our lovers (god bless our parents!), who couldn’t possibly step up to what love was meant to be, as she thought of it: all forgiving, non-discriminating, fluid.

And what about the needs? One had to have needs. It was a path of nature. Larisa found the balance between the self-fulfillment of those needs and the ones she could hand over to another — unpoetic and stressful. So, she chose to handle all of them on her own; not with any sense of confrontation or showmanship, but with the esteem of self-reliance. And surely, Larisa thought, it would only elevate the love. Surely, if one handled the demands of one’s survival with this much grace, there would be more room for the beauty and the compassion; the reflection of the self in the suffering of others and the almost rapturous feeling of knowing exactly how it felt to be another; for such a love lacked fear, and it could take up spaces with its tide-like tongues, and whenever it retracted, one only had to wait for its return. In light, in easiness: What surrender!

Larisa wasn’t really sure how or where, in the self, the unease began. On that day — a day unmarked by any significance — she’d gone into a church. With her head bowed and eyes half-closed, she didn’t seek answers or help, only a space from which to observe the ways her thoughts moved, sometimes birthing moods, sometimes — nothingness; and she watched herself alter, even while in stillness, mind creating matter; thoughts becoming intentions; and she cast the net into the endless vagueness and brought them back into the very is-ness of her: Into what she believed the most.

This church appeared make-shift, marking a spot where, under an influence of a former fanatical thought, an ancient Russian cathedral had been burnt down over half a century ago. A modest wooden building, unheated, undecorated, in a shape of a polygon, sat in the shadowy corner of a square. The country was living through an era of resurrected gods and revalidated heros, often dead by now, having been taken for granted for the sake of simplifying a former common ambition. Things crumbled. Alliances turned chaotic. And when everyone woke up to amended history — figures worthy of worship long gone and nearly forgotten — a common panic ensued. For even if it weren’t the ego that made a people matter, it had to be their spirit; a common memory of a civilization.

The roads had frozen overnight; and at first, she had snuck-in to thaw out her stiff toes. She purchased a candle at the door, mostly out of habit. She didn’t even know how that particular ceremony worked. Two side altars, with figures of crucified saints, sat against the walls of the church, opposite of each other. Standing there for a while, still and unnoticed, she studied the other women who moved like ghosts across the dirt floor. Everyone was fully clothed. She looked down at her feet and shifted: There was little hope of her finding much warmth there. Still, she stayed. She paused, and in the growing shadows of her memories, she waited.

Older women in head scarves, with histories written across their tired faces, were crossing themselves at their chosen mantels. Some moved their lips in prayer, repeatedly lowering their heads in a manner that came after so much practice, one was no longer moved by it. What misfortunes had brought them here? Loss required humility, otherwise one was consumed with fury. Her country had lived through tragedies with a numbness of habit. Resignation was often advised by the elderlies, yet she found herself incompetent at it.

She took another look at the suspended saints and walked over to the side alter with a Christ whose eyes were semi-open. A little girl in a rabbit fur hat clung to the leg of her grandmother. Larisa looked down at the child and without raising her hand, moved her fingers inside the mitten. The child, sensing an interaction, got shy and clutched the old woman’s leg with more zealousness, for children often appeared overwhelmed with the energy of living. Their egos struggled with the life force they had been granted (what were they supposed to do, to be? how did they matter); and juxtaposed against the even flow of hours — one’s magnificence was only seen in silence, she believed — the egos expanded; for surely, they had to become something better.

Moreover: If you want to know the very gist of me, the ethics upon which I stand and the beliefs with which I measure the world; if you want to predict the disappointments of my spirit when others don’t live up to the their goodness (and if you wish to summon my own aspirations to be only good); if you desire to see the shadows of my mistakes and flaws that cost me so much time and heartbreak — the stories in my father’s eyes will tell all.

(His eyes are blue and honest. The man lacks all capacity to tell a lie. And if ever he discovers himself in the unsettling situation of having let somebody down — never due to his shortcomings but only circumstances — his hand comes up to rub the ridge above his eyebrows; sometimes, his chin. He hates to be the cause of pain.)

All other loves of mine — are replicas, and I have spent half of my lifetime searching for the exceptional kindness with which my father treats the world. In the beginning, I was meant to fail: It takes a while to not take for granted the components of our parents’ characters which, with our own older years, begin to make us proud. Identity compiles its layers with our exposure to the world; but the very roots of our goodness can only lead to those who gave us life and hopefully our first opinions of it. Their goodness — is our very, and most important, homecoming. And if I had to choose my only prayer for this world, I’d ask for every prodigal child to find their way back home, through forgiveness, wherein lies the discovery of what was missing all along. It always lies in our parents’ souls.

(There are two folds, now permanent, at the medial edge of father’s eyebrows. In those, he carries his concerns for those lives that he has vowed to protect. In them, I see the weight of manhood, his duty and his sacrifice. The endless rays of lines at the outer edges of my father’s eyes. How easily they bring him back to lightness! My father lives in constant readiness to bond over the common human goodness and delight. He’d rather smile, for life, and not brace himself to witness his child’s or the children of others’ pain. He’d rather give and then dwell in that specific peacefulness that happens after generosity — and not be helpless at relieving someone of their deprivation.)

The whole of lifetime, I can recall the never failing access to my gratitude. In childhood, I couldn’t name it yet: I never needed any reasons or explanations for the lightness of those days. My adolescent years posed a question about the qualities that made me differ from my contemporaries; and when I watched my friends make their choices, while inheriting the patterns of their parents, I started wondering about the source of what made me lighter on my feet and ready for adventure. I was different, but what was really the cause of it?

(My father lives in readiness to be childlike. When new things capture his imagination, I can foresee the eyes of my son, when he would be continuously thrilled by the world. Dad frowns a bit when he attempts to comprehend new things, but never in a burdened way: So intently he tries to comprehend the world, he thinks hard and quickly to get to the very main point of every new event and person, the central apparatus of every previously unknown bit of technology and invention. And then, he speaks, while studying your face for signs of recognition. To honor others with his complete understanding — is crucially important to that man!)

It would be gratitude, as I would name it later: The main quality of my father’s character that made me — that made us — different from others. The privilege of life never escaped my self-awareness. Just breathing seemed to be enough.

In the beginning years of my adulthood, which had to strike our family quite prematurely, I started aching on behalf of seemingly the whole world: I wished for human dignity. We needn’t much in order to survive, but to survive with dignity — was what I wished upon myself and everyone I loved (and by my father’s fashion — I LOVED the world and wished it well!). And then, when life would grant me its adventures, however tiny or grandiose, the force of gratitude would make me weep. Then, I would rest in my humility and try to pay it forward, to others.

(No bigger thrill my father knows in life than to give gifts. They aren’t always luxurious, but specific. They come from the erudite knowledge of his every beloved that my father gains through life. Sometimes, all it takes is someone’s equal curiosity toward a piece of beauty — and this magnificent man (my father!) would do anything to capture just a token of it and give it as a gift. He looks at someone’s eyes when they are moved by beauty, and in his own, I see approval and the highest degree of pleasure.

And I have yet to know another person who accepts his gifts more humbly than my father; because in life, IT ALL MATTERS. No detail must be taken for granted and no reward can be expected. So, when kindness is returned to my father by others, he is seemingly surprised. But then, he glows at the fact that all along, he had been right, about the world: That everyone is good!)

And that’s the mark that father leaves upon the world. He never chose a life with an ambition to matter, but to commit specific acts of goodness — is his only objective. With time that has been captured in my father’s photographs, I see his own surrender to the chaos and sometimes tragic randomness of life. And so, to counteract it, he long ago chose to be good.

Every day, after I hesitantly press the coded “PUBLISH” button on my WordPress’ dashboard, I wait for the website’s quirky exclamations to appear on my screen:

Right on! Bonanza!

Bingo! Superb! Fab!

At least half a year ago, I stopped noting each post’s number; and as of recently, I’ve also lost my addiction to the stats columns. It’s not that I’m indifferent toward my readership, in any way: No sir! I just don’t have any time in the day to check my numbers as religiously as the newbie-blogger me used to do, a mere year ago. So: I just collect the praises.

Besides, even if I have checked the stats, wake me up in the morn’ — and I won’t remember a thing about them. Instead, I could tell you plenty about the remote neighborhoods of LA-LA for whose visit I’ve had to borrow Superman’s cape, so that I would beat the traffic and be on time, along with all the other pros. For a while, in the hours of the next day, I can recall the hustle of the previous one: the projects that I’ve pursued, the people who have delighted me; the coffee shops at which I published in between my commitments; the anxieties, the victories; the tiny defeats and inspirations. But by the end of the week, the memory gives way to the nearest ones — of mostly yesterday.

Awesome!

Truth be told, I don’t even recall what I’ve written just two days ago. Therein must lie the cathartic charm of art: For once the written word leaves my laptop and leaps into the mysterious vortex of the internet, I have already lived it out completely. I’ve let it go, you see, with more grace than I’ve ever practiced in any of my relationships.

And in the entire 351-day history of my blogging, I’ve returned to stories — to rewrite their endings or to keep telling them — in all of five times. I just don’t do that, I guess: Once I hit “PUBLISH”, the story gains a life of its own; and I allow for its destiny to determine where in the world it flies and whom in the world it reaches:

Magical!

Looking back on the year of daily blogging, I myself must admit that I had absolutely no idea as to what this writing adventure would turn out to be. First, there would be the technical challenges of course: Learning the sites, studying the patterns and manners of other bloggers, upgrading my own computer, and eventually narrowing down my art’s topic — while in the process of doing it.

But those, I immediately saw as the perfect excuses to learn: To step out of the fearful pattern of my mind and to submit myself — to change. In the end, as even back then I already knew, it would be rewarding. And I was right: It has been. And it deserves praise.

The personal challenges that came with my now spoken — better yet, written — desire to have a public persona, I could NOT have foreseen. When at first, the opinions of readers and friends began flooding in, I was thrilled. But it wouldn’t be too long before I began hearing criticisms and watching how my friendships started redefining themselves. At first, I geared-up with my anti-hating campaigns and googled other artists opinions on the matter. But then, eventually, the angst ran out.

And it hasn’t been a surprising discovery that I have never complained about having to publish on any given day. What I’ve been practicing — is a privilege to live in art; and the discipline of its pursuit has never gotten in my way.

And speaking of discipline: This year, I have discovered it to be THE grace of all other working artists. Those who succeed the most, work the most (and, therefore, fail the most, too).

And actually, no matter the hustles of each day, discipline indeed turns out to be my saving grace: It gives me a reason to be, despite the failures.

Marvelous!

So, it’s been one challenging year, because its every day I’ve spent creating. And after all that shedding — the mourning, the flailing, the pleading, the lashing out; the learning, the changing; the growth; the acceptance — I am proud to find myself in a place of surrender. Because no matter all other circumstances, I do this — because I must. Because to do anything else — would be dishonest.

And so I allow for the world to happen, while I continue to happen — to it.

I’ve never seen such a thing. The normally two-lane highway — with one lane heading to Monterey, and the other back down to Central Coast — has narrowed down into a single one. The red light conducts the traffic going in two different directions into a narrow passage marked by the striped, orange cones.

One lane. Somehow, all the way up here, in Kerouac’s country, coming and going doesn’t seem to matter. We are all one: simply on the road.

We wait.

Ahead, the plastic poles cut across our lane diagonally, and the orange netting stretched between them provides zero protection from the loose stones that seem to have come off the side of the mountain. The high rock is exposed and dark gray, darker than the wet asphalt of the PCH. Here, the highway had to have been built by heros, used to conquering any mountain. Or, perhaps, it was carved by the machetes of the retired Valkyries, tired of fighting.

We rest.

The traffic behind us is starting to accumulate. The Jeep of military green has a brand new rack on its rooftop. It’s empty. A line of Subies and Prii must belong to the locals. They know how to navigate these roads, with patience and an even hand. But I wonder if for them — the chase is over.

A row of similar cars going in the other direction finally passes us. Our light changes.

We begin to continue.

As the view opens around the bend, we both gasp: Unmanned machinery sits amidst the piles of construction material. There are rolls of metal netting with which the heros must secure the side of the suddenly disobedient rock. A giant crane of royal blue is left upright and I immediately want to go swinging off its rusty hook suspended seemingly at an arm length away. It has begun to drizzle and the machines parked on the other side of the road, over a short bridge, are blurry behind the fog. Sleeping monsters. There are a couple of newly erected cement walls, on both sides of the road. They’ve got their purpose written in stone, but with five meter spaces in between each one, they appear to be thought up by Richard Serra himself. And underneath it all, there roars the Pacific. It’s white with foam and gray with rage. Mercilessly, it slams its hissing waves against the giant fangs of the rocky shores.

To look down feels like a bird’s flight, but it is best not to do so while driving: The heights tempt the mind’s wings into the abyss.

The line of cars on the opposite side of the site simultaneously waves hello with their skinny hands of windshield wipers. The faces behind the rain-splattered windows seem calm and exhausted, but not at all resigned. They are aware, actually. For fifty miles at least, I haven’t heard any thumping of car radios or the abrasive screech of honks.

We cruise. Come up on yet another sign.

ROUGH ROAD

The forewarned patch is just a dip with gravel on the bottom. The white railing to the sides winks at our headlights with yellow, round mirror eyes.

We drop, survive.

It’s not so bad. And just like that: It’s over.

The mountains get higher here. The fog is denser and it wraps around the black peaks. It blends the line between the seemingly undoable heights and the sky. The Ocean beneath is blurry, and although the drop can no longer be measured by the eye, the exhilarated heartbeat knows it’s no joke. I hear its whooshing. Glorious.

The limit that marks the end of that terrain and starts Big Sur sneaks up on us: And suddenly, things change. The mountains are not so rocky and covered with all shades of green and rusty red. The roots of vegetation replace the metal netting done by the heros; and they seem to do quite a sufficient job at taming the exposed rock. The rain begins to come down evenly, but not yet pour. There kicks in the smell of mushrooms, dying leaves and wet bark.

The fields with feeding livestock return. A row of inns and hiking humans marks our return to calm civilization.

HENRY MILLER LIBRARY

SOMEONE ELSE’S GALLERY

USED BOOKSHOP

BREAKFAST LUNCH AND DINNER

We pick up the pace. The Redwoods. Magnificent umbrellas of evergreens. Stalagmites of eroded yellow rock. The fire-engine red of succulents.

CARMEL HIGHLANDS

We keep on moving. Sometimes, we follow the lead of those who seem familiar with the passage. Their pace is calm, belonging to those living in surrender. The occasionally impatient ones pass us while we pull off to the other side of the white line. Here, we’re all still one, and simply — on the road.

Yes, it’s a hard way of being: Living as an artist. But then, again, I wouldn’t want to be living — in any other way.

And I’ve tried. In all honesty, I’ve tried to be many things: Anything else but an artist. An administrator, a teaching assistant, and a secretary. A proofreader, an academic, a critic. A manager. An accountant. A librarian.

They had known me for years, and for years — they had seen me working. They had watched me giving a very fair try to living for the sake of a different profession. A “normal” profession. A job. And they had witnessed me change my mind.

Back then, I wasn’t really sure which profession it would turn out to be, so I would try everything. And instead of entertaining things, I would satisfy my curiosity by leaping into every opportunity. Because I always felt I could be so many things; but I wanted to make sure that I couldn’t be anything else — but an artist.

Being an artist resembled an exotic disease — a dis-ease of the soul — and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t one of its victim.

“So, what’s your major this morning?” my folks teased me during our phone calls. I was prone to changing my mind, and the flexibility of my American education confused the hell out of them.

“Well, at least, you’re getting an education,” my best friend comforted me. She always comforted me. And it seemed to bother her the least — my proneness to change my mind, because I felt I could be so many things.

Come to think of it: It should have been easier, in my youth. During our college years, that’s exactly what we were meant to do: To seek. To learn. To experiment. To be — so many things!

But somehow, my contemporaries seemed to be more certain about their paths. They would be teachers or administrators. The more city-savvy types were going into investment banking in New York. And I’ve even known one biologist and a chick who went to work for Fox News. But mostly, they would be teachers.

“How can they be so sure?” I wondered.

Because I wasn’t sure. I could foresee the pleasure in having a day job with which I could identify myself for a couple of years; but the romance of its routine would expire as soon as some bureaucrat’s ego would begin dictating procedures to me, on a daily basis. Some of them didn’t like my language, or my dress code. They handed me time sheets and forms, along with the lists of appropriate jewelry. Some wanted me to tame my hair. Others preferred I didn’t call my colleagues “Loves”.

So, I would leave. I would always leave, but with enough notice and plenty of disappointment noticeable on my employers’ faces:

“It’s just that you had so much potential!” they would say.

“Then, why did you break my balls about my headscarves?” I would think in response. Still, I would leave with grace (even if I was leaving over burning bridges).

After college, I would be the only one in my class to leave for an art school.

Everyone had an opinion. Everyone but me. I still felt I could be so many things, but I really wanted to be — just one!

Some seemed to be quite disappointed in my decision to stick to the arts.

“What are you gonna do — with an art degree? You could be so many things, instead!”

And I wasn’t sure. I still wasn’t sure.

“And how can everybody else — be so sure?!” I wondered.

After the first semester in my MFA program, the uncertainty about my profession would remain. However, the overall vision of my life was becoming clearer: I would be an artist. I WAS an artist. And it was starting to be enough — to be that one thing.

And so, there I was: Willing to risk my life’s stability — the stability about which my contemporaries seemed to be so sure — for the sake of seeking daily inspiration. I would take on projects that would fuel my gratitude and curiosity. I would begin spending my nights in companies of others who shared my exotic disease — the dis-ease of the soul; and I would attend their shows and poetry readings, and loom in front of their paintings in tiny New York galleries. And none of us were still certain about our destinations; and yes, we were still filled with angst. But we did share the same vision: Our moments of happiness were simultaneous to the moments of creation — the moments of dis-ease.

Throughout the years, some of my contemporaries have disappeared into their professions: They turned out to be successful administrators and great teachers. Wonderful teachers, as a matter of fact! I would watch them moving with seeming certainty through their honorable daily routines.

“Still: How can you be so sure?” I would interview a few of them, years later.

I had succumbed to my disease fully by then, and I would learn to maneuver the demands of my survival jobs. I had surrendered.

“Are you kidding?! We aren’t sure at all!” some would answer, honestly.

And for the first time, in their tired and good, decent and honorable faces, I would notice a slight glimmer of doubt.

“Oh!” I would wonder. “So, no one really knows, for sure!”

Strangely, I would find no comfort in their doubtfulness.

But I would find great ease in knowing that I myself had fully surrendered to my disease: The dis-ease of my soul — of an artist.

For nearly six miles I was chanting this to the steering wheel of my car, yesternight. I was caressing it, leaning my flushed cheek bones against its drying leather. And when no one was looking, I even planted a peck onto it, with my semi-dehydrated lips:

“We can make it!”

I suspected this would happen: I had waited till the very last moment — again! — to refill my gas tank. And now, I was running late to a rehearsal — again! — with my gas light on: AGAIN!

“God damn it!” I would have sworn normally as I sensed the neon yellow light on my dashboard, out of the corner of my eye. “I should’ve done this last night!”

But that night, I was exhausted, thinking only of the sleepiness, somewhere in my calves and feet; and of trying to not run outta gas — again.

And now, I was sitting in traffic on a congested side street someone had recommended to me as a shortcut against, um, well… traffic. But that’s what happens quite a bit: Other people’s shortcuts — turn into my hell.

So, I would much rather just keep taking my own routes; doing it my own way.

But then, yesternight, I was running late — again.

So, I attempted to surrender: “We can make it!”

I had already done THE work, by then: Five hours — GONE out of my day! Grateful! Of course, I was grateful — for being able to do it. But fitting in THE work every day always required two things: lack of sleep and brutal discipline toward the rest of my life.

And then, of course, there was the survival hustle: Chalk up another three hours to that! But I have long surrendered to that already, because I am the one who chose this destiny, this route. I am the one who rejected a myriad of day jobs and hustled to get herself out of the drudgery of the restaurant business, as well. I am the one who agreed to the chronic pain-in-the-ass-ness of a freelancer’s life. I am the one continuously taking — and building — my own ways. Because only then, do I have enough dignity and space — for THE work.

And now, I was dashing across town: To do more work.

Okay, maybe I wasn’t dashing: I was crawling, dragging my ass through the overheated, exhausted streets of LA-LA. I was serving my time among others with their stories of pursuits, and with exhaustion written all over their drooping faces. And while doing so, I was resisting every urge to curse out the retirees existing in their own timezones inside their oversized Lexuses:

“Why aren’t you moving?!” I’d usually flail while studying the trail of break lights ahead of me. Normally, there is no rhyme or reason for it: only the collision of other people’s timezones. And I have to remember that they too have done their work that day: THE work.

So, I attempt to surrender: “We can make it!”

The side street finally opened into a giant boulevard. We flooded onto it, and the people coexisting in my timezone took over the outer lanes — and we got going.

But then: My gas light came on.

God damn it!

I immediately remembered the poor sucker in a Porsche who got stuck in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, the night before. I had been sitting in traffic, on a congested side street, waiting to merge. Because that’s what happens quite a bit: My shortcuts collide with the shortcuts of others; and we have no choice but to obey each other’s timezones.

“But why aren’t we moving?!” I kept thinking and trying to see ahead of the red trail of break lights. Surely, there was no rhyme or reason for it!

Not until we flooded into the intersection, did I notice the Porsche owner sweating, swearing, cursing out the honking drivers, as he refilled his tank with a portable plastic canister. A Porsche outta gas: Times must be tough, I thought.

And we kept on crawling, yesternight. We kept on — serving time.

Some of us had already done THE work. Others just hustled to survive.

So, I attempted to surrender: “We can make it, surely! We can make it! All of us!”

And I would make it, not just to a gas station, but to my favorite one. I would pull up behind a tired, droopy face of a young man who stared into space above the rooftop of his vintage Volvo. He would forget to close the flap on the side of his car, and I would honk. He waved, pulled out masterfully and waved again. Thank goodness, there were people coexisting in my timezone.

“We can make it, babe!” I kept chanting.

Forty on six.

Have a good night.

You too, babe.

The nearness of humanity outside the plastic bodies of our cars was beginning to soothe me. The whiff of gas followed the short-stop pumping sound of the pipes. I began staring ahead, above the rooftop of my car.

“Um…” I heard.

An older man with smirking eyes and crooked yellow teeth was standing next to me, while clutching a ten dollar bill.

I was missing a somewhere, the other night. I wasn’t really sure which somewhere it was: Whether it was New York, or that other glorious city up north that I was in the habit of craving. The skin was calm, but the soul was crawling. Or at least, the soul was swaying — toward another somewhere, much different from here.

And it was an odd sensation. I had no obligations to keep me in town, treading the specific ground of here. I could’ve taken off, at that moment, in my car. I could’ve driven it for as many gas tanks as my bank account would afford. And I realized: I had never found myself in such a here. Before, there was always something to keep me in place. But be it my full acceptance of losses or some urgent realization about time — about my now — I suddenly found myself unattached.

No, not de-tached: for I never let the days pass me with carelessness. I am not care-less — I am care-free.

And: It felt wonderfully.

If there was anything I’ve learned: I knew there was no use in being frustrated with a lack of time. Time would keep on doing its thing. So, instead of measuring my life against the flight of minutes — and their flightiness — I was beginning to choose taking control of them. (And I’m pretty sure my full acceptance of losses had something to do with it.)

But taking control of time could cause a lot of damage to the human hand. The only way to actually control it — was to surrender. To accept the flight of minutes. To find delight in their flightiness.

And the only way to do that — was to live. Some chose to live it up, in their way: to defeat time with money. My way seemed tested by time: I now live fully, curiously in my here; never putting a curiosity on hold for too long. For me, the only way to take control of time — was to never let it pass me with carelessness.

For I never was care-less — I was care-free.

So, when I was missing a somewhere, the other night, I thought:

“What if I found that somewhere — HERE?”

I knew it had to be a busy somewhere: a somewhere where other people chose to be here. It couldn’t be a club or a lounge, because those were always filled with mixed messages and convoluted ways. In those, one must hunt much harder to find sincerity or truth. No, I wanted to be somewhere where people walked according to their own nows. I wanted to see young lovers strolling calmly as if never frustrated with a lack of time. I wanted to watch friends laughing at outside cafes, kids waking-up their parents with their curiosity. I wanted to see street artists who could teach me their ways of being carefree.

And so, I drove myself to the coast. It gets much colder there, I thought; and before starting up my car, I bundled myself in an oversized sweater that reminded me a different somewhere: NOT here.

I drove in silence, with my windows down. I remembered the beginning days of cellphone culture: I was living in New York — a somewhere that’s definitely much different from here. The only way to escape the clumsiness and unawareness of cellphone users — was to go underground. Because there was always plenty of stories on the New York City subway, but the stories overheard from phone conversations didn’t seem to be in that plenty yet. That’s until we would ride out above the ground, at the 125th street: Cellphones would get whipped out as if in an airborne epidemic; and bits of soundbites from other people’s private lives would flood the train. And then, we would go underground again, in silence.

So, I chose to drive in silence, the other night, while crawling toward a somewhere much different from here. (How ever — when ever — did I dare to surrender my moments of daytime silence to the soundbites of other people’s private lives narrated to me over my bluetooth?)

The closer I got to the coast, the denser got the traffic. There shouldn’t have been any traffic at that hour, but I was glad to navigate it: It meant other people were driving out, according to their nows. Other people were choosing to tread the ground, and maybe I could find a little bit of a different somewhere — here, that night.

On foot, the very first couple I saw was hip and mellow, and completely stunning. He was tall and pretty. She was tiny, exotic, quirky and adored. They were wearing layers of tattered tees and oversized sweaters. She sported a military jacket, with feather earrings touching the seams of its shoulders, in the fashion of other exotic girls, in that glorious city up north that I was in the habit of craving.

A homeless man with a full, gray beard was walking a golden retriever. The dog seemed better groomed — and fed — than the owner; and that other person’s love soothed me with calmness:

“Everything is still quite alright, with the world,” I thought.

He wasn’t — careless.

Then, there was an older couple: both white-haired and neatly dressed in all shades of blue. Each possibly older than their sixth or seventh decade, they walked very slowly, according to their nows, very specific and very different from the now of mine.

“What is this here called?” the woman asked in a child-like voice. She was speaking Russian.

“A mosaic,” he responded, in English, studying the facade of the church that attracted his girl’s attention.

She repeated it, in English. They were both still learning, waking each other up with mutual curiosity. And they loved.

“Everything — is still quite alright, with the world.”

A husky voice belonging to an angel reached my ears. I started walking, quite slowly, toward the curly blonde in an oversized coat singing on the Promenade. A small crowd had accumulated around her. People leaned against trees, against their beloveds; they sat on benches, each obeying their nows.

The angel, when speaking, had a London accent — from a somewhere much, much different from here. She sang our night away.

I never got to the somewhere that I was missing that night. But I somehow, my here was good enough.

“What are your fantasies?” a message came in last night, and it lullabied me with my waking dreams shortly before the other kind would take over.

I sorted through the collection in my mind, considered each dream, lifting it up against the nightlight; twirled it, until every stone sparkled with light; and I measured each one against my skin like a pair of long, mysterious, gypsy earrings.

I selected a few:

“Being naked on a beach in Greece. Ditto in Barcelona — but with a lover,” I responded.

There are so many places teasing me with their exotic promises. But mostly, I am interested in chasing just another variety of peace. I am not really after a particular slowness of time, but a serenity that comes with knowing that I have finally surrendered.

Surrendered to what?

To stubborn kindness no matter how difficult it may initially be, with a stranger; or with a new lover. To the gentle nature of my motherhood. To the esteem of knowing that I have found, pursued and succeeded in my calling. Or, at least, that I’ve given it all — my best.

Yes! That’s it! That I have given it my all — my very best. And that I have loved, always and selflessly.

Last night, I rummaged for a bit longer, found another dream I hadn’t examined in while, dusted it off with my breath and lifted it above my pillow. Lazily, the teardrops of amethyst-purple captured the light with their prisms, divided it and bounced it back at me. It made me calm, with possibility.

“Sitting around a bonfire with gypsy bards,” I sent off another message to my interviewer. “Then, learning to ride their horses, at sunrise.”

It would be like a magnanimous homecoming, and I swore I could smell the morning dew as I would ride through the fields of another place with its exotic promises, in laughing company of my people.

“What about your sexual fantasies?” the voice on the other end of town cut through the city’s diameter with an instantaneous message.

Oh. I wasn’t even thinking about that. Certainly, there would be love in every one of these adventures. There would have to be! Because I had always loved — and selflessly! And I had assumed that to my interviewer, my vision was just as clear.

Still, I opened another compartment of my dreams’ jewelry box and looked inside. I haven’t rummaged through this one in a while. The precious stones caught the light and sparkled lazily. Which one? Which one?

“Oh, my!” I sent off another message across town. “I don’t even know where to start.”

It used to be a better hobby of mine, in youth. With every new love looking over my shoulder, I would visit this increasing collection of my fantasies, dust them off with my breath and twirl them, above us and in between.

“How about this one?” I would look at my beloved’s face through the polished surface of a giant garnet or a convoluted insides of an amber. His face would illuminate with the colors of passion and hunger.

“Yes! I’d like to try that!” he’d say.

And so: We would.

And it would be so liberating to share a dream, to discover each other through the intimacy of our secret desires. Revealing my fantasies would arouse me with trepidations, especially if their exploration unveiled the braver sides of me. If (or when) my lovers reluctantly reveled their own secrets, I would be open-minded and humbled. And I would honor them, with the same preciousness my lovers had shown me.

Because I had loved, always — and selflessly! And I had always given it my all — my very best!

At the end of every affair, the secret would remain safe with me. I wouldn’t throw it across the room in an argument with the departing. I wouldn’t flaunt it in front of the lovers that followed. Instead, I would lock it up, in a compartment with my own fantasies; and I would unlock them only when missing that old love, or when seeking inspiration, with a new one.

Last night, I stared at the lifted cover and the pile of stones full of stories. But in that pile of stories, I seemed unable to find what I was looking for.

“I think they’ve changed,” I confided in my witness. It surprised me that in a box full of treasures, there was no angle or a cut, no shade, no sparkle, no formerly adored setting that taunted me with a desire to explore it: to lift it up against the nightlight and let it lullaby me to sleep shortly before the other kind of dreams found its way.

“Maybe, I’m not ready yet,” I thought to myself.

But that didn’t sound true at all.

“I think — I have changed,” I confessed to my interviewer.

My witness beheld:

“How?”

“I think, my only fantasy now — is the goodness of my men.”

The confession echoed with so much truth and self-awareness, I immediately locked down the lid to my secrets. This was something new, something clear — something very precious. Because I have loved, always — and selflessly…

Because I have always given it my all — my very best! — I was finally willing to ask for it, in return. I was ready for my goodness to come back to me, after being reflected through the prisms of my lovers’ decency.

My main fantasy was found in a new desire to be partnered with someone worthy of my goodness — someone good, on his own terms.

Last night, the other kind of dreams would take over shortly. But this time around, there would be no nightmares at all.

Some people — men and women alike — may not enjoy cooking (although most share a general liking of sex). Whenever I’ve met those non-cooking types (and I used to be one of them), their only fault turns out to be quite innocent: They just haven’t been able to discover any pleasure in the kitchen, yet. My own earlier disliking of cooking had something to do with a lack of time and sparsity of ingredients. But once I’ve crossed the threshold into my fuller-fledged womanhood and more comfortable prosperity, I soon discovered: I loved cooking.

“But, of course, I cook!” I tell any man who asks; and I say so proudly while I notice a whole new category of interest sparking up in that man. He wants it. I can tell.

But there isn’t really much art to cooking: All you need is esteem and common sense. (Kind of like in sex.) Esteem is a consequence of experience and skills. The better the esteem — the better cook. The better the lover.

With baking, however: It’s a different ball game. The one thing that a baker absolutely must accept is a very precise list of ingredients and measurements; tools, temperatures, timing. A baker must enjoy following instructions, which much be why none of the men I’ve known liked baking. Sure, I’ve dated many men who cooked. Although I’ve never slept with a professional chef, I’ve shared a bed — often after sharing a meal — with a few men who were very skilled at cooking.

Interestingly, the better skilled cooks, in my personal statistic, somehow turned out to be better equipped lovers. It may be a pure coincidence, of course, but I would imagine that what made them good in bed and in the kitchen was their willingness to improvise.

There are recipes in cooking, but most of us, cooks, use them as a mere source of inspiration. Personally, all I need to know is the flavor profile and the temperature; and then, I take it from there, on my own — thank you very much. And soon enough, I am able to get lost in it: to transcend while most the time thinking of the person for whom that meal is being made. And that is exactly where I get off: Cooking requires a generosity of the soul. Combined with a set of skills, it is meant for the benefit of the other participant. Kind of like sex: GOOD SEX, that is.

And just like in the bedroom, I prefer to establish a certain amount of control in my kitchen. I am an extremely territorial cook: I keep my working space immaculately clean while often setting the mood with the voices of my favorite soulful songbirds and wearing the minimal amount of required clothing. During a meal, however, I prefer to lose that control and to get my hands dirty. And I do prefer for the other person to get turned on by the tastes and the textures of the meal so much, that he unleashes the reins of his vanity — and starts eating with his hands and licking his fingers.

Here, I would dare to compare cooking to foreplay: As any good cook and lover, I bounce between the general recipe for it and, again, improvisation. Which would then make the actual meal — sex itself. When in the midst of it, there is no more room or time for brushing up on the ingredients. Because after all of that preparation, it is time to get down and dirty — and to make a meal of it. Which is why I always prefer the company of very hungry men.

Now, baking, as I’ve mentioned, is a whole different ball game. It’s a ballpark with its own rules. Personally, I prefer an absence of all balls while I juggle in front of my stove. On occasion, I have permitted a man to observe me while I improvise a meal, for his benefit. But as a baker — I do my thing in silence and entirely alone.

I still think of the other person, of course; but the more I like a man — the more complex my baking recipe will be. Because what I want — is to impress him, to titillate him with luxury at the end of a successful meal; to take him over the edge just when he is ready to lean back and relax.

If I ever bake for a man, I have already interviewed him on his favorite sweets. I’ve done my research. I have collected the best of the ingredients which often requires traveling to specialty stores and the purchase of a specific pan from Sur La Table. Sometimes, the process of baking takes several days: I let each part sit, settle, cool down; absorb the ganache. Then, I compile the next layer, and I allow it to serve its time as well; to age a little. And I find that most cakes taste slightly better on the second day after their completion. But then, I always perform the final touches just a few hours before presentation.

And it turns me on to harbor the secret of it while I observe my man consuming a meal and often singing me praises:

“You have NO idea what’s coming at the end of this, do you?” I think to myself — proudly — I notice a whole new level of interest, of adoration that arises in my heart for the very hungry man across my table.

Most bakers will confess that they don’t improvise. It is a game of precision. You must be willing to surrender to the rules and avoid listening to any dictation by your ego.

But the more you grow as baker, the more room you find for improvement. TRUE: That room is very modest. There is nothing you can do to fix a collapsed souffle or to a mousse cake that refuses to set in. There is nothing to do — but to start from scratch.But you can thicken the icing to fix a lopsided cake. Or you can add a caramel to a cheesecake to distract your guest from a less-than-perfect crust.

And so it is in love making — TRULY GREAT LOVE MAKING: You must know what you’re doing. Not only have you interviewed your partner about his tastes and preferences, by now, you have most likely practiced a few times. You’ve learned how to reach your lover’s pleasure. You’ve done: The research!And that very expertise is what separates love making from sex: It takes time and practice. It takes surrender — and maybe just a little room for improvisation.

No matter how good of baker you are, you will most likely always botch up the very first crepe, right? And no matter how great of a lover you are, the very first time with a partner, you’ll end up having sex — NOT making love. But if you’re willing to invest the time, to do the research; to learn and to be patient; to accept the recipes to your lover’s orgasms and to know when and how to throw in the last improvisation — however modest — you will discover this:

What makes a great lover — and a great baker — is leading with your heart.

They wait for me at the agreed-upon intersections in San Francisco, at New York delis, or at coffee shops — when in LA-LA. Some hear me speeding by, in search of parking, while simultaneously texting them: “b there in a min.” They watch me march into a joint, with my hair pulled back. (Unless traveling long distances up the coast, with all the windows rolled down, I keep that mane tamed at all costs.) I walk into my rendezvous, smiling at the clerks and saying hello to strangers; then, I scan the room for my beloveds.

I see them and immediately move in for a hug:

“It’s been so long. So happy to see you. Ah.”

I wrap myself with their bodies: I am not big on personal spaces between beloveds.

And when that’s all done, I start dumping my loads onto the nearby chairs, peeling off my purses and sweaters. I’m the type of a broad who carries a first-aid kit at the bottom of her endless bag. A nail file. A pair of scissors. A tampon (always!). A dozen hairpins. And a sewing kit: Never know when you may need one. And you bet your sweet ass, I have a notebook somewhere in there, as well. I just have to look for it.

“Well, maybe I left it in the car.”

I don’t even own one of those dainty purses I see other girls carry on their forearms into clubs. Those things always make me wonder about the gap between the purpose they’re meant to represent and their actual functionality. It’s a metaphor gone awry. A promise meant to be disappointing.

But then again, the lesser the load — the lighter the female, right?

Perhaps. But I doubt it.

In my defense, with time — with age — I’ve gotten significantly lighter, it seems. It wasn’t a determined decision to drop the endless self-flagellation ceremonies of my 20s. Instead, they just sort of slipped out of my daily routines; giving room to more decisiveness or to very tired surrender. Having realized I’m merely an impossible debater to defeat, I stay out of arguments — with myself.

And so, I’ve gotten significantly lighter. And so have my baggages.

I flop into the chair, across from the face I have now loved for ages, and I let down my mane:

“Ah. Can I get you something to drink?”

It’s a habit that just won’t go away:

I examine the needs of my beloveds before I check up on my own.

But they’re fine. My people — are always fine. They are resilient. Strong and competent, never helpless. And even if they’re not fine — that’s fine too; because if ever they ask me for help, I never go telling on them. And neither do I ever mention it again.

“Seriously. Don’t mention it. My honor!” I say, as if threatening.

Love comes with no ties attached.

We begin to talk: A quick game of catching up with the lapsed time. A survival of our separations. If it were up to me, I would have all of my beloveds live with me in a commune: Some Victorian house balancing on a cliff above the ocean, with a menu of attics and basements, and hiding places for their selection. And at night, we would gather at a giant wooden table in the middle of an orchard, and we would search our oversized bags — and baggages — for nighttime stories and lovely fairytales about surrender.

But my people — are vagabonds and gypsies; and they go off to conquer their dreams, and to defeat their fears, on the way.

After enough is said to make me want to have a drink or to toast, I finally get up from the chair and start making my way to the counter, smiling at the clerk, again. In a couple of steps though, I look back, flip my mane and say:

“Sure you don’t want anything?”

Equipped with replenishing elixirs and an item in place of bread that we can break together, I come back to the table, rummage through my purse for a napkin and jumpstart the next round of storytelling. And I guarantee, most of the time, these are stories of broken loves and departed lovers.

But my people are fine, of course. They are resilient. Carefully, they process their losses; and they start dreaming of the next adventure. The next love. The next story.

“I’ll drink to that,” I say and tip my mane back while chugging down my drink.

When it’s my turn, however, my stories don’t come out with an obvious ending. Instead, they offer endless lessons and questions. For years, for decades, I have been known to mourn my lovers. I flip each story on its head; and as if yet another endless bag of mine, I rummage through it for details and conclusions.

And that’s when my comrades try to put an end to it:

“Don’t dwell on the past,” they say, and they go to the counter for a refill.

I don’t really know what that means:

None of my stories are ever put to rest. And neither are my loves.

Instead, they bounce around, at the bottom of my endless baggage, waiting to be pulled out the next time I am in the midst of rummaging for words. Which must be why I retell each tale so many times, committing it to my own memory and to the memory of my beloveds.

So, dwelling on the past: I don’t really mind that, as long as I don’t dwell in it. And in my defense, I have gotten lighter, with time, and with age. And so have my baggages.